


Exculpation

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feanor tries to fix things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exculpation

**Author's Note:**

> Response to B2MEM Prompt #5 - Regret & Starting Anew (2009?)

Once again, he lifted his fist, fingers clenched together tightly, his eyes focused on his mark. He drew back slightly, hardly breathing. His hand – his arm – his whole body shook, and those who knew him so long ago might have mistaken it for rage.

Slowly, the hand was lowered; the fist unclenched. Feanor swallowed hard and closed his eyes while bowing his head. 

He heard an owl in the distance, and tilted his head back upward. His eyes opened and took in the beauty of the night sky – ‘night’ was what they called this, when the stars were bright against a cloak of black. Yet, they were dimmer than he recalled them to have been, and the guilt that was becoming so common as of late struck him once more.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mumbled to himself. It has become his recent mantra, to mask his former pride with admitted idiocy. The trouble was that even if others believed it, he knew in his heart that arrogance had played a far bigger role in his fall than a loss of common sense.

Once again, he lifted his fist, fingers clenched together tightly. The door separated him from his future, though he could turn and leave at any time. Now the shaking renewed, and he let his arms relax at his sides.

It was so much easier said than done. He knew he no longer held a grudge, no longer loathed or hated them, or even cared about those thing which once caused him such grief. It was going to take three very small, very quick words to express those feelings. Feanor cupped his hands together and placed them over his nose and mouth in order to calm himself.

The shaking subsided, but the fear remained. “I cannot do this,” he whispered to no one, and he turned. The door now behind him, he faintly heard the sounds from within of merriment and happiness. His resolve to leave diminished with every moment, and he gasped slightly as the guilt turned to longing and regret. Tears he had kept hidden for so long were wiped away quickly and he turned back to face the door.

Once again, he lifted his fist – and the door opened. He lowered it in immediate shock – wide-eyed as a deer caught by the huntsman in a clearing. Feanor choked on his words, unpracticed yet simple, unable to speak.

“Brother! You have returned!” Fingolfin frowned and his face showed concern when Feanor did not respond. “Why do you stand alone on my porch at such a late hour? Surely you have reason to be here?” The words were hopeful.

The reply was faint and Fingolfin looked confused. Feanor swallowed and tried again. “I am sorry.”

Fingolfin blinked and looked downward, as if to jog his memory. When he looked up again, he asked, “Whatever for?”

“Everything,” added Feanor after a pause. 

Fingolfin opened the door wider and stepped to the side. “We were just having a glass of wine by the fire. You are welcome to join us, of course. My mother is here tonight – she always did like you, even if you were not so very fond of her...” he trailed off.

Feanor stood on the porch, rooted in place. “That is it?” he asked, dumbfounded. “An age of misery from me, and more from my enemies, upon you and your entire family... and you invite me into your home?”

“I could turn you away,” supposed Fingolfin, “but I really do not wish to.”

They stood silently on the porch as the owl hooted again. Finally, Feanor broke the silence. “How is your mother these days?” he asked, inquiring as to the wellbeing of his father’s second wife.

“You could come in and ask her yourself,” Fingolfin reminded him. He stepped further away from the doorway and motioned toward the entrance. “Fresh scones and tea if you prefer those to wine,” he offered.

Feanor took a few steps toward the threshold and stopped. “I am sorry,” he said again, finding it easier the second time. It was no less sincere than the first, and Fingolfin nodded.

“I know. I forgive you,” he said. He shrugged. “I forgave you even then, remember? I told the Valar there was no reason to punish you, and I followed you clear across the sea – over the ice after you burned those ships we fought so hard to get.” 

The reminder brought another remorseful look to Feanor’s face. “How?”

“Oh, I do not know,” said Fingolfin. “We just set our minds on our goal and walked very carefully. It was cold, but—“

“No, I mean... how could you forgive me so easily?”

“You are my brother; always have been and always will be. We do things, we forgive each other, we move on.” He started to grin, and said, “You were not the only one, you know. Finarfin did a few things that made me want to ring his neck sometimes, but I always forgave him.”

“I thought you and Finarfin got along so well,” said Feanor.

“Sure, but we still drove each other crazy from time to time. Tell you all about it over tea and scones,” he tempted.

Feanor looked into the house past Fingolfin. "After I say good evening to your mother," he suggested. 

Fingolfin held the door wide open. "She is in the parlor with my wife."

There were three more words that Feanor realized would mean the world to Fingolfin. He gripped the railing and looked to Fingolfin. "Lead on, brother."


End file.
